


Please, please, don't leave me

by Inactive Account (sassybleu)



Series: Home Again and Gone [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Trigger Warning: drug use (nothing in explicit detail)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-17
Updated: 2014-10-17
Packaged: 2018-02-21 12:20:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2468096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassybleu/pseuds/Inactive%20Account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's been prepared for John to leave since they got together.<br/>Here is what happens when he does.</p><p>*can be read as a standalone<br/>** Formerly known as "If You Leave, I'll Sleep the Whole Night Through"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Please, please, don't leave me

**Author's Note:**

> A little AU set in the same 'verse as the series. Takes place the morning of "Tomorrow, I'm gonna leave here,", but can be read as a standalone. 
> 
> Goal: It didn't have one until I was a few words away from 900, so that it became.  
> Disclaimer: I own nothing except my words.
> 
> Trigger Warning: This fic contains drug use to aid in suicidal behaviour. It is nothing too explicit (the very worst is a non-graphic description of a syringe piercing skin)
> 
> Title From P!nk's song "Please Don't Leave Me"

Sherlock woke to a piece of paper flapping softly against his face as his breath puffed in-and-out of his mouth, dragging the page with it. Slowly coming to awareness, he groggily opened his eyes and pulled back quickly; as if he’d been shocked. His eyes widened and he felt a sense of dread pool at the bottom of his stomach, quickly making its way up to his head; fast enough to make him nauseous and start a dull throb behind his eyes. Sherlock carefully reached forward with one hand, and gingerly picked the note up, as if it could bite at any second,

_\---_

Sherlock’s breath came in ragged gasps. The note fell from his hands and landed on his lap before he tried to bolt from the bed, falling as his legs tangled in the duvet. Kicking furiously, Sherlock managed to free himself and get to his feet, barely making it to the toilet before he started puking up the dinner John had coaxed him into eating last night.

As Sherlock finished vomiting, he leaned back against the tub. He was pale-faced, and he was beginning to tremble. Air refused to reach his lugs as he gasped and sputtered, trying for air but receiving none. Somewhere in the back of his mind he realized he was having a panic attack, and thought that it was a strange reaction to be having; considering he had already been planning for John to leave him as soon as they had gotten together.

An hour passed before Sherlock was able to collect his thought enough to leave the bathroom. Sherlock went to the kitchen and cleaned up some of his more dangerous experiments. Mrs. Hudson had no knowledge of what the chemicals were; it wouldn’t due to have her hurting herself.

The kettle whistled as Sherlock made himself tea, the way John usually had his. Sherlock hurried to gulp it down, ignoring the burn in his throat as he walked to their—his, bedroom. Sherlock looked under the bed for John’s shoes and found none. In the wardrobe, in one of John’s designated drawers, was an oatmeal coloured jumper; freshly washed and folded sloppily. Sherlock snatched the sweater, and headed to the closet. In the back-left, under a box of cold case files, the carpet easily peeled up to revel a small section of floorboard with a handle-like notch carved in it.

Sherlock lifted the take-away floor panel and retrieved the dark red-black wooden box that lay inside. Standing up, Sherlock walked back to the bedroom, placing the box down before heading to the sitting room. Sherlock pushed everything on his desk to the floor, before scrawling in neat font on a sheet of paper,

_John,_

_I love you with every atom of my being._

_I love you_

_Sherlock_

Sherlock carried the note back with him as he walked back to the bedroom and grabbed John’s note and jumper.

Sherlock settled himself on the bed before preparing his vein and the syringe with everything he’d need to sleep peacefully that afternoon. Just a little too much would do it, but he’d never been one to do anything halfway. Sherlock filled the syringe with everything he had before poking the needle through his skin and pushing the plunger down as much as it could go.

Sherlock place the syringe back in the box before unceremoniously tossing the box onto the bedside table. He placed the note on John’s pillow, within plain sight, and grabbed John’s jumper. Sherlock clutched the note to his chest with one hand, while burying his tears into the fabric clutched in his other.

It wasn’t long before he stopped crying.

 

Feet raced up the stairs.

 

***

Here's what John's note read:

_Sherlock,_

_I’m sorry. I guess that’s what I want to say. I don’t really know how to tell you. I love you, I do. God help me, I do. But, that’s not enough, is it? Things are so wrong now. It’s nothing like how it used to be. Like how we want it to be again. I’ve tried, I really have. But I don’t think you’ve been. Or maybe you have, and I just can’t see it. I know there are things you won’t tell me. Things that happened…then…that you just can’t say. I get it. God knows there are some things I did in the desert that still haunt me, but you just can’t get past them. I could help you. I’ve tried to help you, but there’s nothing else I can do. All this time I’ve been thinking, if I just wait it out. If I just stayed patient with you. But it hurts Sherlock. It’s not your fault, and I don’t blame you at all. But it hurts, and I’m afraid that we’re going to tear each other apart. I don’t want to do that to you. I could never live with myself if I did. But I don’t think I’d live through you shredding me. You’re my world, Sherlock. It kills me to have to leave it—leave you. I love you. I wish I could just say that and make it all better. I’d do anything to fix this—to help you, but there’s nothing else I can do. I think that maybe this’ll be good for us. You can heal and get some closure, and I can find myself a bit. Sounds cliché, doesn’t it? It is._

_I love you_

_John_

**Author's Note:**

> So that's what you get when you combine procrastination with a dark mood. It ain't happy, is it?
> 
> 4/13/15: Please do not duplicate or post this content elsewhere without consent.


End file.
